


EXO—Short Ficlets (2013)

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Could Be Canon, F/M, Gen, Not Quite 66 Ships But..., Random & Short, Short & Sweet, Various AUs, Various Ask.fm Fills, Various Ratings, Warning: Kris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3998839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short ficlets, one-shots and drabbles featuring various EXO members and pairings. Most are reposted from Ask.fm or Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [Sehun/Kai] The Symptoms of Young Love (March 31 2013)

Despite the fact that Baekhyun laughs for ten minutes straight when it arrives, Junmyeon's proud of his new Mini Cooper, gleaming candy-apple red with black racing stripes. He insists on driving it to the black tie gala they're expected to attend later that night, even though arrangements have already been made for a car to transport everyone to and from the venue.

In the end, though, it's Sehun and Jongin who end up riding with him. 

"Sorry, maknaes, I'm pulling rank on this one," Baekhyun says, tugging at Chanyeol's bow tie in an attempt to straighten it out. "There's just no way I'm getting in that car. It's embarrassing me just thinking about it."

Junmyeon's not a bad driver, though, and they arrive in one piece, although the backseat's cramped and Sehun's tuxedo jacket is hopelessly wrinkled and Jongin's knees hurt from being tucked under his chin. But they're alive. Junmyeon twirls the keyring around his index finger so jauntily as they're walking up the venue's staircase that Sehun's about to kick him when Jongin puts a hand across his chest to stop him. 

 

An hour later and Jongin's slumped in a chair when Sehun comes up to him and presses the key fob in his had, refusing to make eye contact as Jongin looks up, incredulous. 

"What did you do?"

Sehun shrugs, face completely deadpan. "Come on. Let's have some fun, I'm bored."

Jongin refuses to let him drive the car out of the lot: "He'll kill us," he warns, nipping at the soft skin behind Sehun's ear as he pulls him into the backseat, Sehun's fingers already working at unfastening Jongin's trousers.

Jongin had always thought that closets were the most uncomfortable places to hook up. He's reconsidering this as he's shoved up against the armrest, head knocking against the glass while Sehun yanks his underwear down and buries his face in Jongin's lap. 

_"Ow,"_ he seethes, and then, _"fuck,"_ as Sehun's warm tongue glides over the head of his cock, thumb braced just under his lower lip for extra pressure. He wants to rock back, let his hips buck into the back of his throat and just fuck him but he can't get balanced enough to find the leverage although he _tries_ , valiantly, before Sehun wraps his arms around his waist to keep him still. He settles back against the door again, hands braced against the ceiling as the pressure grows in his groin, knees falling apart, ankles crossed behind Sehun's crouched figure. 

He slams his head against the window a third time, yelping, fingers knotted tightly in Sehun's hair. It dulls the afterglow _just slightly_ and he rubs the spot tenderly as Sehun sits back and swallows. That's usually Jongin's favorite part, watching Sehun wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before he pulls him in to plant a kiss on his red, swollen lips, but he's too distracted by the ache in his skull to work up the enthusiasm. 

"Well, _I've_ certainly developed a new appreciation for the closet," Jongin remarks as they're walking back into the party. They're both wrecked—sweaty, clothes rumpled and untucked, Sehun's hair completely disheveled despite frantically running his fingers through it as they crossed the parking lot. Jongin's bow tie is completely missing, probably gone forever, a sacrifice to the backseat of the Mini. Sehun snickers into his hands at this and sneaks off to try and casually slip the key fob back into Junmyeon's pocket undetected. 

He's not successful, but he finds he doesn't care all that much.


	2. [Kai/Kyungsoo] Stand Right Next To Me For Now (March 31 2013)

Jongin's so nervous he doesn't realize he's finished the entire pot of coffee until he goes to tie his bow tie and can't quite manage it because his hands are shaking too hard. He struggles with it in the mirror for a moment before he abandons the dream of pulling it open at the end of the night and opts for the pre-tied one he'd bought just in case.

He has to get out of the car and go back into the house three times: the first, because he's forgotten the tickets; the second, to retrieve the boutonnières out of the refrigerator, and a third time because he'd left the car keys on the kitchen table when he was getting the boutonnières. He's a jittery, spluttering mess by the time he turns the ignition and backs out of the driveway, narrowly missing the next door neighbor's trash cans on the curb as he swings around, puts the car into drive, and barrels off across town. He mops his brow with a napkin he finds in the center console and frowns into the rearview mirror, unhappy with the way the humidity's already curling his hair.

It turns out that Kyungsoo's nerves are even worse than Jongin's. He's not even _ready_ when Jongin knocks on the door, answering frantically after a full minute, no trousers on, black socks pulled up to his knees, suspenders slung over the back of a chair along with his (already wrinkled) jacket.

"Hey. Come here a second," Jongin laughs and catches Kyungsoo by the shoulders as he tries to dash past in search of his cufflinks. "You're a mess."

Hands steady now, he smooths out the lapels of his shirt and leans in, pressing a kiss on the bridge of his nose. Kyungsoo smiles, the apprehension in his eyes melting away.

"You look nice," Jongin says finally, stepping back to survey him. "But I don't think the chaperones are going to let you in without any pants."


	3. [Kai/Suho] Walking a Fine Line (April 2 2013)

Junmyeon's not expecting the sight that greets him when he pushes open the door to the bathroom. He takes a few uncertain steps back, looking at the floor.

"Oh—uh. Jongin," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I was just looking for you."

"I'm here," Jongin says, turning away from the bathroom sink. The skirt swishes around his knees and he looks down at it, a bemused expression playing on his face. "Yeah. I know. This looks weird, I'm sorry," he laughs apologetically, twirling around to give the full effect. It flashes a hint of those idiot, neon red boxer briefs he insisted on wearing around the dorm and Junmyeon swallows hard, breath hitching in his throat a little. "I just found it in our laundry. I think it's from one of the girls in the other dorms."

Junmyeon tries to control his breathing through his nose, slowly exhaling as he considers this. It's always somewhat of a struggle to be around Jongin, sometimes, given his penchant for being shirtless at exactly the wrong moments (dance rehearsals, coming out of the shower and crossing the dorm to get to his room) that causes Junmyeon's jeans to tighten uncomfortably. The skirt's making him harder than ever.

"It's nice," he manages. "Very pretty."

He's not sure how it goes from laughing about the skirt to forcing Jongin up against the bathroom counter, his face buried underneath it as he removes Jongin's underwear with his teeth, pressing his face against the erection with a kind of reverence Jongin hadn't ever experienced during a blow job before. Jongin watches the fabric bob up and down, hem flapping, a tight curl of pleasure knotting itself in his abdomen. His eyelids droop heavily with satisfaction as Junmyeon introduces a slick, wet fingertip into his ass, then another, beckoning a low whine from deep within Jongin's chest with each shallow thrust. Jongin hums encouragingly, syllables failing him as he cups a hand around the base of Junmyeon's neck and rubs it.

He comes embarrassingly fast, all things considered, an explosive orgasm that renders him speechless and motionless for a solid twenty seconds before he's even able to move again, jaw slack, pinpricks of light and color edging his vision. When he finally regains the ability to think, he's not even able to get Junmyeon undressed completely to help even the score before Junmyeon's panting into his neck as he comes in his pants like a teenager.

"Jesus," Jongin says as Junmyeon closes his eyes and nuzzles his face into Jongin's sweaty shoulder. 

"I know. Just. Don't say anything for a minute," he pants, voice wrecked.

"I was just going to say, I think I'm going to keep the skirt," Jongin laughs, wrapping his arms around Junmyeon's waist to keep him standing upright.


	4. [Sehun/Krs] With Both Hands (April 18 2013)

They haven't even been offstage for thirty seconds when Kris has Sehun around the neck, dragging him by the crook of his elbow down the hallway—a tight smile plastered on his face, bowing, smiling some more at the clusters of people that part to allow them through. Sehun's giggling, amped up from their performance, arm wrapped around Kris's waist. There's a bounce in his step. He's got no idea what's coming.

"Are you _skipping_ right now?" Kris asks, looking to see if anyone's coming before he shoves Sehun through an open door and slams it behind them. "Sehun, what the _hell_ were you doing tonight?"

"What?" Sehun grins a little, eyebrows arched innocently, and Kris thinks he's never looked more impish. He backs Sehun aggressively into a chair, nudging him into a seated position with his hands firmly planted on Sehun's narrow, bony shoulders. He's already breathing heavily from exertion, but Sehun's eyes nearly bug out of his skull when Kris leans in above his lap, balancing his weight on his knee against the arm of the chair, their faces now separated by a mere few inches of stuffy air. 

"Sehun. We've talked about this," Kris murmurs, mouth dangerously close to the shell of his ear. "Don't you _ever_ listen to me?"

They're in someone else's dressing room, Sehun realizes as he tries to look anywhere but Kris's face. They shouldn't be here, definitely shouldn't be doing this, but he knows he pushed it too far earlier when he pawed at Kris's inseam during the middle of a live performance. It was a spontaneous decision, made in the moment, a brief reminder that _hey, remember me, I'm here, I'm watching you, are you watching me?_ He's needy; it comes with the territory of being a horny teenager who's recently stumbled on a steady source of blow jobs.

Sehun licks his lips and considers this, settling back against the chair and returning Kris's eye contact with a calm, controlled smirk. Kris is fairly terrible at hiding the extreme range of emotion he experiences in any given day, and now is no exception: he's a very specific shade of pissed off and frustrated, flying high on adrenaline from their performance, and he can't be sure, but Sehun would stake his entire career on the fact that Kris is _probably_ hard right now, too.

Kris doesn't break eye contact as he presses the back of his hand against the strained fabric of Sehun's trousers with a slow, deliberate grin. Sehun's head pitches forward, whimpering into the salty, slick skin of Kris's neck. 

" _Hyung._ " His fingers grope blindly at Kris's zipper for a moment before they're slapped away. He groans, tries to glide a deft tongue past Kris's teeth. This attempt proves unsuccessful, too.

"Stay _still_ ," Kris orders, using the same tone he adopts during rehearsals: sharp, commanding, no-nonsense, like nothing's happening, like he's not palming Sehun's dick through a thin layer of fabric, fingers tracing the hardened length with gentle dexterity, then switching to slow, inattentive circles with his palm until Sehun's lips start to quiver, face sweaty with exertion all over again. He's trying his best to hold static, but his hips have a mind of their own, rocking up and into Kris's hand with a gentle rutting motion.

Minutes pass. It could be hours, Sehun supposes, because he's got no idea. He wonders if the others are looking for them, wonders if the real occupants of the dressing room are going to come in and find them, Kris straddling him, knee braced against the back of the chair, Sehun all strung-out and panting, a splintering whine rasping from deep within his chest, heaving: "Hyung. _Please._ "

"It's not funny, is it?" Kris says.

" _Please_ , I just want—"

"I know what you want." Kris snickers, thumbing the tip of Sehun's dick through the fabric. "You think you're going to get it after today?"

Sehun lunges forward, mouth open, only to be thwarted by Kris's palm against his forehead.

"No."

Kris grabs Sehun's hand and pulls it towards his inner thigh, lets him feel his own erection and they sit there like that for a moment, Kris's hand working to guide Sehun's hand in gentle, downward strokes. Sehun's whimpers are husky now, breathing shallow; it only takes Kris a few more well-placed caresses with the warm heel of his hand and Sehun's pushed over the edge, stifling a ragged cry in Kris's shoulder. Kris chuckles quietly as he watches Sehun slump back in his seat, completely undone, entire body shaking.

Eventually, Sehun pulls himself together. Composure regained, he starts tugging at the snap on Kris's pants. Kris slaps him away.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. I told you; not when we're working." He stands up. Sehun winces as the blood starts to return to his legs. "Besides. I don't want to make a mess in these pants. We're supposed to wear these outfits again tomorrow."

Sehun's head hits the back of the chair with a dull thud as he realizes, altogether too late, that he's been played. "Shit. You _fucker_."

Kris ruffles Sehun's hair as he turns to leave. "Don't talk to your hyung like that, you brat. Learn some manners."


	5. [Suho/Chen] Make It Last (May 19 2013)

When Junmyeon sidles up to Jongdae between classes, Jongdae's immediately on high alert: Kim Junmyeon, Class President, never talks to him unless it's to ask him to be quiet so he can hear what the teacher's saying. This is always accompanied by furrowed brows and a fierce expression, though, so he knows he's not about to be told off. He's at a loss. He can't imagine what he possibly wants.

"Hey…" Junmyeon begins, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Look, I — do — do you need any help studying for finals?"

Jongdae closes his locker with his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you offer to help me study? Actually, since when do you talk to me voluntarily?"

Junmyeon looks truly distraught at this point, lower lip caught between his teeth as he mumbles. "I-kind-of-need-a-favor-nevermind—" He's rocking on his heels to veer away when Jongdae catches him by the elbow and yanks back, hard.

"Spit it out. What could you possibly need from me?"

Junmyeon's eyes give a meaningful flicker to Jongdae's belt. "I — I know — I mean, I was wondering — I mean, you've — had-sex-and-I-just-don't-want-to-(his mumbling becomes completely incoherent at this point before it starts to resemble intelligible speech again)—so-I-was-wondering-maybe-if..." he trails off, a faint blush creeping into the apples of his cheeks. The look on Junmyeon's face says he'd rather be dead right now than standing there having this conversation. This is beyond anything he could have possibly expected when Junmyeon cornered him at his locker and Jongdae's loving the role-reversal. He's all too aware of the power he wields at this very moment: Junmyeon's trusted him with something that could potentially humiliate the shit out of him if Jongdae chooses to laugh and announce it to the passersby. _On the other hand,_ he thinks, giving Junmyeon's cringing form the once-over, _he's actually pretty cute. This could be alright._

"Holy shit." He whistles. "Are you fucking with me right now?" He watches Junmyeon shrug and lets out a sharp, barking laugh. He can't believe it, even looks around to make sure he's not being pranked before he leans in and asks, a little too loudly, "Are you really asking me to fuck you?"

"Do you really have to yell?" Junmyeon mutters, looking pained. "Never mind, forget I asked. This was stupid."

"Hey, I didn't say no, did I?" Jongdae says, pulling a pen from his back pocket to scribble something on Junmyeon's palm. "Here's my address. Come by tonight — six o'clock. My parents work late. It shouldn't take too long, especially since you don't know what you're doing." He winks. "I bet you don't last five minutes."

The passing bell rings and Junmyeon's eyes wrench from his inked hand to look up at Jongdae. _He looks scared,_ Jongdae thinks as he watches the hunched shoulders retreat down the hallway. _I bet he doesn't even show up._

● ● ●

Jongdae's a little amazed when his doorbell rings promptly at 6:01. "Figures the class president would be on time for his deflowering," he cracks, ushering Junmyeon inside and up the stairs. He brought his fucking backpack with him, for reasons passing understanding: "Did you really think I wanted to study afterwards?" Jongdae asks, tugging it off his shoulder and tossing it aside. "Sit down. On the bed."

"I — there's — I brought condoms," Junmyeon says awkwardly. "I wasn't sure."

Jongdae chuckles softly. "Well… good thought, remember that for next time. I'm all set, though." He slides the top drawer of his bedside table open and pulls a handful of brightly-colored foil squares out, lets them cascade through his fingers like individually-wrapped candies before he selects a purple one and tosses it into Junmyeon's lap.

"Are these good?" His voice cracks a little bit on the word _good_. 

Jongdae laughs, barely resists the urge to parrot the question back at the class president just to see how it feels. "It'll do the job." He settles himself next to Junmyeon and eases a hand around the back of his neck. Junmyeon swallows audibly and Jongdae feels a momentary blip in his confidence when he asks, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Junmyeon nods and leans in, tongue fumbling against Jongdae's teeth with clumsy licks — it's clear he hasn't had a lot of practice doing anything, the way his hands jerk hesitantly from Jongdae's arms to his hips to his shoulders before Jongdae takes hold of them and places them on his face just to keep them still. He doesn't miss a beat, deepens the kiss just enough to coax him back against the bedspread, skimming a line with his thumb all the way from Junmyeon's chin to the tenting fabric of his school uniform's trousers. Jongdae's familiar with these: standard issue slacks, one button, a cheap zipper that tends to stick — usually when he's fooling around under the staircases at school he opts to pull them down around his knees without undoing the button in case he has to pull them back on in a hurry. There's no danger of someone rounding the corner here, though. He can take his time.

Junmyeon lets out a shuddering gasp and nearly slips out from underneath him like an errant bar of soap when Jongdae's hand cups his dick through the thin fabric.

"Relax. I've got you," he says, voice rumbling deep in his chest. He can't resist getting a dig in, though: "You're going to have to let me touch your dick if you want me to show you how to do this."

Junmyeon rolls his eyes and pushes against Jongdae's body defiantly as if to say, _go on then, fucking touch me already._

Jongdae doesn't have to be asked twice. Before Junmyeon is able to focus on what's happening, Jongdae's straddling Junmyeon with his knees to pull off their shirts — then their pants, one leg at a time, struggling slightly as the fabric wraps around Junmyeon's ankle and refuses to let go for a moment, clinging, clearly panicked at the thought of being on a stranger's bedroom floor. When they're finally naked, Junmyeon just fucking lies there, erection digging into Jongdae's thigh until Jongdae takes the lead again, pulling him against his chest to smear a messy kiss against his earlobe.

"Come on, Mister President," he grunts, rocking his hips into Junmyeon's. It hurts a little, bone on bone, but he can see Junmyeon grimace and so he does it again for effect. "You took health class. Let's see how much you remember."

"Jongdae."

"Hey. It's got to be a little bit of fun for me, since you're going to suck at this anyway," Jongdae grins, half of the condom wrapper still hanging from between his teeth as he unrolls it down Junmyeon's dick and nods. "There. That's how you do it. Now the important thing is to just make sure you're both relaxed and having a good time—"

"How am I supposed to do that if you're critiquing my performance?'

"No talking back to the teacher. Class is in session." Jongdae retrieves a bottle of lube from the same drawer as the condoms and shows Junmyeon how to warm it between his palms, guides his hand against his ass and pushes a finger in just to show him how to get started. Junmyeon looks pretty displeased with the idea at first but to his credit, doesn't say a fucking word. Jongdae's almost disappointed. 

"Just — you know, go easy, it's not a fucking race," he pants when he's finally ready, beads of sweat trickling past his temples as he wraps a leg around Junmyeon's waist and pulls him close. "I know you're going to blow your load in like, less than a minute, so let's just— _ah_." His eyes bug out a little as Junmyeon thrusts himself inside to the hilt and lets out a garbled string of syllables that might have been a coherent thought in his head, but it's been lost in translation on the way to his mouth, " _Jesus,_ relax—"

Junmyeon doesn't ease up, though. He pulls out almost completely before he slams back inside so hard Jongdae's seeing stars, the sharp smacking noise of skin on skin echoing in the quiet bedroom. 

" _Fuck_ , Jun—" He can't even finish his name he's so out of breath. They lock eyes for a moment: Junmyeon's expression is one of pure concentration, one that Jongdae's seen a thousand times in class, during exams, that little hint of a smile tweaking the corners of his lips upward when he knows he has the right answer. He's always been a quick learner. He knows exactly what he's doing.

Jongdae knows in that moment he's doomed. He can already feel the bruises forming and he knows he's going to be sore tomorrow from the way he stings every time Junmyeon rolls back inside of him.

Jongdae's got the upper hand here, though. He was right when he predicted that Junmyeon wouldn't last too long, although he makes it past the three minute mark — the five minute mark — all the way to eight minutes before he groans, gripping red marks into Jongdae's thighs as he collapses, boneless, on the bed. He doesn't even protest when Jongdae retrieves his hand and puts it on his dick, forces him to finish jerking him off until he's moaning and winded, too.

"Well?" he wheezes, offering Junmyeon a box of tissues he keeps on his desk.

"You tell me." He peels off the condom and wraps it in a tissue, gripping it awkwardly in his fist as he tries to surreptitiously locate the trash can in the room.

Jongdae's eyes linger on the fine beads of sweat collecting at Junmyeon's hairline, a strange warm feeling curling in the pit of his stomach and all the way down to his toes. "Well," he laughs. He can't believe he's about to say this. "That was pretty good for your first time. We'll work on it. I'll give you a B minus. But you'll definitely have opportunities to raise your grade."

Junmyeon scoffs but his eyes crinkle at the corners. He struggles to hide how pleased he is when he says, "There's going to be a next time?"

Jongdae can't bring himself to say yes out loud so he does the next best thing he can think of and slings a leg over Junmyeon to pull him in for another kiss.


	6. [Kai/Kyungsoo] Don't Be Lonely (May 19 2013)

The other toys are surprised at the new addition to their collection. It’s been the same band of old hand-me-down playthings for so long — Raggedy Chanyeol, yarn hair frayed from years of being wound through sleepy fingers; the teddy bear, Baekhyun, the soft flocking from his suede paws rubbed smooth with time; Junmyeon, the old rocking horse with one stirrup missing; the solemn toy rabbit Sehun, the stitching on his mouth in a permanent grimace; and Kyungsoo, the wind-up doll, the loneliest of these. When the lights are off and the household sleeps, Baekhyun and Chanyeol whisper to each other in cottony voices, chuckles soft and low. Sehun and Junmyeon, similarly — Sehun polishes the silver on the remaining stirrup and sits, paws tugging at the reins as Junmyeon tilts back and forth on his runners, pondering the whereabouts of his missing pieces to Sehun, who knows all the right places to nod sympathetically without actually having to listen to what’s being said anymore.

Kyungsoo’s always been separate. The key in his back makes things difficult: can’t sit against the wall like Baekhyun and Chanyeol, and he’s too small to be able to climb easily from the shelf onto Junmyeon’s saddle, so he sits on the edge and lets his legs dangle, stiffly-jointed knees swinging in short jerks. He hums to himself, listens to the snuffling sounds of sleep in the house, the parents down the hall, the baby — no longer a baby now but a teenager. Kyungsoo sits. He’s waiting for something: feels it deeply, right down to the core of his plastic chest, but he’s not sure what, or for how long.  


●●●

The girl receives a Kai doll for her fourteenth birthday.

“I’m too old for dolls.” Kyungsoo hears her complaints from all the way upstairs. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

Beside him, Sehun’s ears perk up and strain to hear the rest of the conversation. “Something about a collector’s edition,” he says after a moment, turning his paws towards the ceiling in a plush approximation of a shrug. “He’s worth something, I guess. Big money.”

“She’ll break him,” Junmyeon intones, voice tired. “She’s not very careful with us.”

“Hyung,” Sehun says gently. “That was a long time ago. Kyungsoo’s not broken, are you?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. His key sticks a little bit sometimes, and his paint job is starting to fade a little bit, but he’s intact. She took very good care of him, all things considered — used to sleep with him clutched in her hot little hand, took him to school with her, threw tea parties for him and twisted his key to send him strolling across the table at dinnertime. They’d been inseparable. Once upon a time.

Then one day he’d been abandoned on the shelf and that, it seemed, was the end of an era. She didn’t play with toys anymore, too busy with schoolwork and giggling friends down in the kitchen and conversations about boys which confused Chanyeol and made Kyungsoo’s heart feel heavy.

“Don’t be stupid. You don’t have a heart,” Baekhyun tells him one day and Chanyeol shushes him but Kyungsoo’s not bothered — he knows he’s different, feels like he’s full of more than stuffing and plastic.

He puts his hand against his chest and closes his eyes and feels a ripple. As quickly as it happens, it’s gone again and he’s left clutching at the lapels of his old jacket, desperately willing it to come back.

Dancer Kai, #0011 of 1000, finds a home on their shelf later that evening. They reanimate the moment the door clacks shut, circling the new addition with curious expressions. His box is immaculate, shiny and new with absolutely no trace of blemishes across the pink paper that spells out his name in curling white script. He’s tall, with a shock of dark hair and lips sculpted into a perfect pout (“Whoever made his mold is an artist,” Sehun says, voice quivering with admiration). Kyungsoo presses his nose against the crinkling cellophane and feels his face tighten into a wide grin.

“Kyungsoo, what’s the matter?” Baekhyun asks. “Are you okay? I’ve never seen your face do that before.”

He shakes his head, voice unsteady. “Nothing’s wrong. He’s _beautiful_.”

●●● 

Kai remains in his packaging for a full week. Kyungsoo sits and watches him, eyes trained on the boy doll. He’s learning him — the tailored pants, the white shirt, the suspenders with their tiny buttons (“She’d lose those in a second,” Junmyeon tuts). Sometimes he pushes his face against the window and tries to to coax him into talking, “I’m Kyungsoo. You’ll like it here. Everyone’s very nice. Do you want me to come get you out?”

Nothing. No response, no sign of anything, save for the occasional blink that Kyungsoo swears he’s imagining because it happens so fast.

It’s a Tuesday night — maybe even Wednesday morning by now. Kyungsoo paces the edge of the shelf, toes scuffing against the grain of the wood. He can’t sleep — not that he really needs to, but sometimes it’s a relief to stop thinking about things. He’s been thinking about Kai again, keeps wondering if he’s lonely or scared or maybe just a jerk — he wants so desperately to know him, to have someone to talk to on nights like this.

“Kyungsoo.”

Clear as day, his name on Kai’s lips: a soft baritone, second syllable pitching slightly upward. It’s almost a question, tentative, as if he’s not sure he has permission to talk. Kyungsoo nearly topples over the edge in his excitement.

“Kai? You’re—” he stops. Alive seems wrong. He tries something else. “—awake.”

Kai nods.

Kyungsoo crosses his arms across his chest and frowns. “Come out.”

“I can’t,” Kai says quietly. “I’m not supposed to.”

“Says who?” With some difficulty, Kyungsoo manages to sit down, his head craning up to meet Kai’s steady gaze.

“I’m a collector’s item. I’m supposed to stay like this. I’m not worth anything out of the box.”

Kyungsoo flinches, the corners of his mouth turning down. “That’s stupid. Toys are supposed to be played with.”

“I’m not a toy.”

“Yes you are. We all are.” He tips his chin, considering his next question before he blurts, “Do you want to come out?”

Kai nods.

“Why?”

Kyungsoo thinks Kai would shrug if he weren’t held to the backing by so many wires and bits of string.

“You look lonely. I want to sit with you.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t know what’s come over him as he tears at the packaging, ineffective, blunt fingernails picking at stubborn bits of sellotape and cardboard in a desperate attempt to just _get to him_. “I’m coming,” he says. “I’m coming.”

“It’s going to take you forever at that rate,” Baekhyun chides. “You’ll never get him open like that.”

“What do we _do_ , then?” Kyungsoo asks, his tiny plastic hands yanking at a strip of cardboard too thick to tear. “I — I want him out here.” Baekhyun’s smile vanishes as he sees the resolute jut of Kyungsoo’s jaw, the steely slant to a pair of eyes normally wide and cheerful. He recognizes that Kyungsoo’s serious about this, that he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life (except, perhaps, to go back to sleeping in the bed with the soft pillows). That Kai is, somehow, _important._

“Sehun?”

The rabbit sleepily pops his head up from the bottom shelf. “Hm?”

“Where’s that pair of scissors you found? The ones we gave Chanyeol a haircut with.”

Sehun strokes his chin for a moment and disappears, emerging a moment later with a pair of safety scissors tucked under his arm. “They’re blunt,” he reminds the bear as he hands them over. “It took forever to cut through Chanyeol’s yarn.”

“I’m sure these will work,” Baekhyun says, thrusting the point against the back of the box. It gives a little under the sudden pressure and Kai wails.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax,” Kyungsoo says, splaying his fingers against the front of the box. “You’ll be out of there in no time.”

 _No time_ ends up translating to roughly forty-five minutes of sawing and stabbing through the heavy packaging. Baekhyun rattles off a string of curse words he must have picked up from listening to parental fights in the next room when he peels back the box and reveals half a dozen twist-ties that need to be undone before Kai’s finally free. Sehun makes quick work of them while Baekhyun rests his paws and it’s a final, anti-climactic tug before Kai is free, toppling into Kyungsoo’s outstretched arms.

“Ow,” Kyungsoo moans. “My key.”

“You alright?”

It’s unfamiliar territory to Kyungsoo when fingers push through the spaces between his to pull him to his feet but he thinks he already loves it. He flashes forward to the future, thinks about sitting on the edge of the shelf with someone by his side for once, looks forward to late night conversations, hushed, whispering into each others’ ears like they’ve got secrets to keep. He feels something where his stomach should be. _Butterflies?_ he wonders. _Maybe I’m melting. It’s warm in here all of a sudden._

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. He feels woozy, overwhelmed at what’s just happened. He makes the unnecessary motions of dusting off his knees as something to occupy his hands as he looks up at Kai’s face in wonder. He’s even more beautiful out of the box. “Are you?”

“I’m not worth anything anymore.” Kai sounds wistful but he’s smiling. “Is that okay?”

Kyungsoo reaches out and grabs Kai’s hand to hold it tightly, face split with a broad grin. “You’ll fit right in.”


	7. [Kai/Kyungsoo] Turn Back, O Man (June 1 2013)

Truth be told, Jongin hates church. He hates getting up early on Sundays, hates the stiff, starched collar of the shirts his mother insists he wears, hates the tie and the shiny, too-tight shoes he’s commanded to wear on Sundays and special occasions.

But, despite the sleep he’s desperately missing, despite the early-morning alarms and the uncomfortable clothes at the hard, ass-munching pews, he hasn’t missed a service in over a year.

He thinks Do Kyungsoo’s mostly to blame.

Do Kyungsoo’s the youngest member of the choir by at least thirty years but he outsings them all, mouth opened in a perfect ‘O’, his clear tenor voice emerging pristine from his throat like one of those angels Jongin keeps reading about when he’s flipping through the Bible during the homily, pretending to pay attention. 

And then it’s time for the choir to sing and he’s rapt with concentration, spine stiff and straight like they’re handing out awards for the best posture, his hands folded neatly in his lap. His mother glances at him out of the side of her eye and gives him a smile.

“Maybe you should try out,” she whispers encouragingly one morning, patting his knee. He jumps before he can steel himself for contact. He hopes she hasn’t noticed the slight tenting in his trousers. “You seem to love it.”

He could care less about the hymns; it’s Kyungsoo he loves: the long column of his milky-white throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, licks his lips, and turns the page of his hymnal. He has these dark, intense eyes framed by too much white to look anything other than perpetually surprised, usually obscured by his shaggy, unkempt hair. One day he comes in and it’s swept back, styled in a way that’s supposed to look like effortless bedhead but _probably_ took him forty minutes to get it _just right_. Jongin wants to run his hands through it and mess it up.

Jongin has a problem. A problem he fully intends to deal with.

He works up the nerve one weekend in May. He marches right up to Kyungsoo after the service and waits nervously while he gathers his sheet music back into his folio. Kyungsoo finishes tucking things back into their proper pockets before he looks up and raises an eyebrow. Whatever he’d been expecting, Jongin was clearly not it.

“Jongin?”

“Hi,” he croaks, his throat suddenly full of sand. Kyungsoo flashes him a wide grin full of perfect, white teeth and Jongin swallows another Sahara. 

“What’s up?” Kyungsoo prompts after a beat. “You need something?”

Jongin blanks for a moment before he stutters “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Choir. Can I—I mean, when are tryouts?”

Kyungsoo tips his head to the side thoughtfully. “You can sing?” He flushes hot with embarrassment when he sees Jongin’s face fall and amends his question: “I only mean, you’ve never seemed particularly interested before, that’s all. I’d be happy to talk to the music director for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure.” Jongin puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at the stained glass windows. An awkward silence settles between them as Kyungsoo does the same.

“Well,” Kyungsoo says finally. “I need to get going, I guess. Unless—”

“Unless?” Jongin blurts eagerly. 

“Why don’t you sit down with me at the piano? You can sing a few things for me.” He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m just curious. But if I’ve got an idea of your ability, I might be able to convince the director to waive the audition.”

“Yeah. That sounds fine.” Jongin clears his throat again and wonders if he coughs hard enough he’ll dislodge the frog that seems to have taken up residence therein. He hopes he’s able to squeak something out. He’s not a _bad_ singer by any means, but he’s only ever sung along with the radio in the car. Come to think of it, he can _barely_ read sheet music...

He feels his plan backfiring already.

Nevertheless, he settles in next to Kyungsoo at the piano in the choir loft, hoping he’ll be able to sell his dubious abilities with a confident smile (he’s hoping he’ll be able to locate that particular smile in his arsenal any minute now). He’s careful to leave space between them until Kyungsoo shakes his head and scoots himself closer.

“No, come on. You’ll never see the music all the way over there.” He plunks out a few notes on the piano and hums. “Here. Match my pitch.”

Jongin manages to get through this alright and Kyungsoo is amiable enough that he lets their thighs rest together without comment. Jongin’s skin prickles with electricity every time Kyungsoo leans forward and spreads his fingers against the keys, throat dipping with each intonation. 

“Here. Sing this line,” Kyungsoo instructs, pulling a sheet of staff paper out of his folio and pointing at a smattering of notes. “I’ll sing the counter melody.”

Jongin feels faint. “I—I’m, uh, not great at reading music,” he says lamely. 

Kyungsoo nods and folds his hands in his lap. “Okay. That’s fine. It’s just—” He looks up at Jongin, an impish smirk curling his lips upward as he says, “did you really need to join the choir just to spend some time with me?”

Jongin’s cheeks redden. “I’m—not—sure what you mean?” His voice cracks on the last word and he closes his eyes, wondering if he wishes hard enough God will grant him just one miracle and get him the fuck out of here without enduring any further humiliation. 

God’s clearly got a sense of humor, though, because his panicked thoughts are interrupted by the feeling of a mouth against his, small, a tongue tracing the seam of his frown until his lips part in a quiet gasp. 

“What?” he chokes, eyelids fluttering open. 

Kyungsoo pulls back, eyes even wider than usual when he apologizes. “I’m—was that not—did I read that wrong?”

“Not at all.” Jongin grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls their faces together again with such force that he’s a little dizzy on impact. Kyungsoo tastes like chapstick and mouthwash and kisses Jongin like he’s not in a hurry to get anywhere in particular, the slow swipes of his tongue warming Jongin’s lower lip before he pushes past his teeth. Jongin wonders if Kyungsoo’s noticed him staring every Sunday. Everything’s tentative but precise, like he’s been thinking about this very moment and mapping it out in his head for weeks. 

Jongin doesn’t even realizes he’s moaning until the sound is already reverberating around Kyungsoo’s mouth. He pulls back quickly and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his button-up shirt, his eyes darting around the choir loft but refusing to meet Kyungsoo’s confused squint. 

“You okay?”

“I—yeah,” he says, voice husky. “I just. I need a minute. Or I’m gonna—” he gestures at his fly like he’s not obviously hard just from kissing, the tips of his ears glowing red with shame. 

“Yeah. Me too, actually,” Kyungsoo says meaningfully, his gaze dropping to Jongin’s belt. “I’m—I’m pretty close,” he admits and Jongin nearly comes right then in his trousers. He’s so turned on thinking about it. _I did that,_ he thinks. _I made him close._

Bravery seizes Jongin, who in turn seizes Kyungsoo’s hand and grinds it against his crotch. He beams at the groaning sigh it elicits, his own breath hitching in his throat at the sudden contact. 

“Well. This is. _Unconventional,_ ” Kyungsoo manages to say, his fingers stroking against the hard length with jerky, uneven movements. He’s obviously less sure about this but Jongin leans over and kisses him and he rubs the heel of his hand a little harder in response.

“I was going to say sacrilegious.” Jongin reaches over to reciprocate, palming Kyungsoo’s dick and noting with pleasure the seething whine that escapes from his nose. 

The choir loft’s quiet except for the sound of rushed panting. Kyungsoo’s hips buck up slightly into Jongin’s hand, voice stuttering as he breathes, “That too,” and tips his head back to bury his face into the sweaty skin of Jongin’s throat. He lets out a soft keening noise as he comes right there, his hand pausing mid-stroke as an entire shudder racks his body. Jongin’s teeth catch at his earlobe and then it’s all over for him too, his underwear pulling uncomfortably with the sticky release that’s now dribbling down his inner thigh. He’s going to have to wash these pants by himself tonight after his parents go to bed, just so they don’t find out what he’s been up to.

Kyungsoo lets out a laugh, a short, squeaking noise that sounds like he’s deflating. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “I— _Jongin_ —”

“I know,” Jongin murmurs, although as he says it he’s not sure what it is that he knows, exactly. _I like you? I like you a lot? That was fun? Let’s do that again?_

“We can’t do that again,” Kyungsoo informs him, almost like he’s reading Jongin’s mind. He leans forward to collect his sheet music from where it’s been scattered on the floor during their encounter. Jongin feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

“Oh. I’m—Oh. Sorry.” He licks the corner of his mouth with a pointed tongue. It still tastes vaguely like Kyungsoo.

“In here, I mean,” Kyungsoo clarifies. “I don’t care if we weren’t struck by lightning this time. That’s no guarantee we won’t be if we try that again.”

Jongin perks up again. “Okay,” he agrees readily. 

“And you’re going to do choir.”

“Do I have to?” His face twists uncomfortably.

Kyungsoo chuckles and leaves a feathery kiss on his chin. “Think of it this way. You’re definitely going to need voice lessons and I might be willing to work on it with you. If you want.”

Watching Kyungsoo’s small back retreat from the room, Jongin thinks that joining the choir might not be so bad after all.


	8. [Chanyeol/Kai] Take My Picture (June 9 2013)

Jongin’s not expecting Chanyeol to be on his tablet when he slides into bed next to him. “Are you going to put that thing away?” 

“Just looking at a few pictures,” Chanyeol says casually, eyes still riveted to the screen. Jongin peers over his shoulder and frowns.

“Of me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m right here. And what are you— _oh my God_ ,” he breathes, a laugh wheezing from his lungs. Chanyeol’s got his dick in one hand, half-hard, palming the underside with slow, uneven strokes. He stops every once in a while to take in the details of a picture, the line of Jongin’s jaw, the hard curve of his hipbones sprawled against the sheets in an early morning portrait of sleep. The pace of his hand quickens, forcing tiny huffs of air between his pursed lips. When he’s finished looking, he uses his fist to drag the head across the screen. The picture changes.

“Oh, come on, don’t do that— _really_? You’re getting dick prints all over it.”

“What do you think I do when you’re not here?” He flicks his wrist and the picture scrolls to another, this time from an overhead view of Jongin, hair curled softly over his ears, eyes half-lidded, lips stretched wide around Chanyeol’s cock. Chanyeol makes a soft noise of recognition in the back of his throat and his fingers tighten: this snapshot’s obviously a favorite.

“ _Jesus._ ” The tablet shifts wildly as Jongin bats at the screen. Half a dozen pictures flicker past, all of Jongin in varying poses of fellatio. “You keep those on there like that? What if it gets stolen?”

“They’re password protected.”

“ _Still._ ” He pats Chanyeol’s thigh. “Put that away and come get the real thing.”

Chanyeol pushes the tablet aside and rolls himself on top of Jongin, mouth already busy against the soft skin of his neck. A groan works its way from deep within Jongin’s chest when Chanyeol rocks his hips forward, pushing his erection hard against the gap between Jongin’s thighs.

“You like pictures,” Jongin says quietly into his ear, a fist of Chanyeol’s hair wound in his fingers. “You like pictures of me. Of us. Like this.”

Chanyeol nods against his collarbone and flattens his tongue against the pink pebble of Jongin’s nipple. Jongin’s body shudders appreciatively into Chanyeol’s generous hands.

“How much?”

Another hip thrust, sharper this time. More abrupt. Translation: _a lot._

Jongin smirks and reaches out to the phone on the side table and slides out from underneath Chanyeol to lie sideways across the bed, limbs sprawled across the sheets.

“What are you doing?” Chanyeol mutters thickly, voice garbled into Jongin’s navel. “Can’t you wait? I’m kind of in the middle of—”

“Here.” Jongin holds his phone out. “Don’t use your dick.”

It takes a moment to register. Chanyeol’s eyes are still glassy, lips red from kissing. “I—what am I— _oh._ Jongin. Holy _shit_.” A blush creeps into the apples of his cheeks as he scrolls through the pictures. “Did you take these yourself?”

“Mmm.”

“When were these taken?”

Jongin shrugs, watching Chanyeol’s eyes pop slightly at the picture of Jongin, legs splayed, lips parted, gaze heavy and direct through tousled hair. He’s wearing an old shirt of Chanyeol’s, obviously too big in the way it hangs off his shoulder, exposing a broad swath of smooth, brown skin. Chanyeol’s eyes rake lower and settle on the position of Jongin’s hand in the photograph, two fingers knuckle-deep inside himself. He gasps.

“Fuck. _Jongin_.”

“Mmm?” He leans in and kisses Chanyeol roughly, tongue hot and insistent against the line of his teeth. Chanyeol’s mouth opens reflexively, pressing heated moans back into Jongin’s lips. “Are they okay?”

“I—fuck, _yes_ —”

“You’d better double password protect them,” he says, a fierce edge creeping into his voice. 

“Triple,” Chanyeol agrees readily, tossing the phone aside on the pillow. Jongin coaxes him down onto his back and retreats on all fours to straddle Chanyeol’s knees, mouth trailing sloppy kisses down the arc of his lower ribs and into the crease of his pelvis. Chanyeol cards his hand through the wavy mop of Jongin’s hair and sighs happily.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he admits, the thumb caressing the smooth line of Jongin’s cheekbone.

“Take some more, if you want,” Jongin remarks quietly, nuzzling the dark, wiry hair below Chanyeol’s navel. Chanyeol exhales sharply in surprise, breath shaky and overwhelmed. 

“Really?”

Jongin grunts, hand flinging vaguely towards the pillow where Chanyeol had discarded his phone. In the next moment he’s grasping Chanyeol’s cock at the base and swallowing him with unbridled enthusiasm. He takes him as completely as he can, lips nearly pressed against his fist as his cheeks hollow.

“Shit,” Chanyeol says into the crook of his elbow, his right hand searching for the phone. “Wasn’t ready for you yet.”

Jongin’s lips meet in a soft pucker when he pulls back, shiny with spit. “You don’t _have_ to, you know,” he murmurs slyly, eyes dark, twinkling with the challenge. 

Chanyeol’s already got the screen trained on him. There’s no way he’s passing up this opportunity. He usually takes the pictures when Jongin’s not paying attention, too engrossed in what he’s doing to notice the phone until the white flash lights up the room. “Keep going,” he encourages, snapping a shot when Jongin sticks his tongue out to press against the slit of his dick. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

“Keep it steady,” Jongin instructs. “They’re no good if they end up too blurry to see anything.”

Chanyeol takes a few more of Jongin’s slow, deliberate nods, noting with pleasure the way Jongin never breaks eye contact with the camera. _He’s posing,_ he thinks, and something goes tight with satisfaction in his groin.

“I’m gonna—” he croaks, moments before he releases down Jongin’s open throat, cock pulsing with each thundering crest of pleasure. Jongin laps it all up, swallowing neatly when he pulls his mouth off Chanyeol’s softening dick.

“Well?” He grins, eyebrows raised to his hairline. 

“That was hot,” Chanyeol sighs, pulling Jongin up by the shoulders to kiss him hard against the mattress. “So hot.”

“No, I mean my pictures. I want to see how they turned out.” Jongin brushes him aside and dives for his phone. “Oh, no. These are shaky,” he says, slightly dismayed. “You can’t see a thing.” He looks over his shoulder at Chanyeol. “Sorry.”

“Next time, maybe.” Chanyeol feels his dick stir when the idea of a second round crosses his mind. “Give me fifteen minutes.”


	9. [Kai/Chen] I'd Like To Show You (July 28 2013)

There it is again. The moaning. Every morning, right before their alarm's due to go off, like some cruel, pornographic rooster. 

Completely awake and nursing a stiffy, Jongdae rolls over face-first and grinds himself slowly against the hand trapped between his morning erection and the mattress for relief. 

Across the room, he hears Jongin whimper and sigh. "Hyung," he murmurs. "That feels good."

Jongdae perks up immediately. It's not much to go on—they're _all_ hyungs to Jongin, but still. "Jongin. Wake up. Who are you talking to?"

Jongin lets out a stuttering breath but doesn't appear to stir. 

"Jongin," Jongdae tries again in a loud whisper. "Yah. You're sleep-talking again." He sits up a little further in bed and sees that Junmyeon's bed is already empty—probably getting a head start on showering by himself before the others crowd into their two tiny bathrooms all at once. He’s got half an hour—half an hour to lie there and listen to Jongin have a wet dream, or half an hour to do something about it.

It’s not a difficult decision to make. He bites his lip for courage, bare feet whispering across the carpet as he crosses the room to Jongin's bed and slides in under the covers. Jongin's curled into a C shape on his side, hips bucking gently against a strategically positioned body pillow that was _supposed_ to help with his bad back. 

Jongin's eyes barely crack open. "Hyung?" he murmurs, voice thick and slow with sleep. He's always had a deep voice but it’s positively husky first thing after waking up. It’s the sexiest thing Jongdae’s heard in a long time, sleep-moaning included, and he swallows a little despite himself. "Why are you in my bed?" Jongin's eyes close again. The rhythmic motion of his hips has quieted, his entire body radiating with painful self-consciousness. 

"You were making noises. I couldn't sleep."

"Noise? Sorry. What kind of— _oh_." His body goes rigid. "I—sorry. Dream."

"What kind of dream?" Jongdae asks, dipping his face into the crook of Jongin's neck. He exhales slowly, noting the shiver that travels the full length of Jongin's body.

"No. It's embarrassing," Jongin mutters. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet. Go back to your bed."

"It’s okay—maybe—" Jongdae licks his lips, mouth going dry with apprehension. "Maybe I can help?"

"Hyung," Jongin whines. "Please. I don't want to talk about it. It’s so awkward."

It's the easiest thing in the world for Jongdae to mold his body to the curve of Jongin's, elbow draped akimbo over his hip. It's even easier to let his hand skirt under the elastic of Jongin's underwear and pause over the warm, smooth skin of his groin, fingertips barely brushing the wiry curls of Jongin's pubic hair. Jongin exhales in one abrupt _whoosh_ of surprise. 

"Hyung."

"Here," Jongdae says, putting his palm against Jongin's erection. "Just—use me." 

Jongin inhales sharply at the sudden contact but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he covers Jongdae’s hand with his own and ruts his hips up into the tangle of fingers, gasping quietly with each thrust. 

"Who were you dreaming about?" Jongdae asks, mouth so close to Jongin's ear that he's practically curling his tongue around Jongin's earlobe. Jongin makes a noise in the back of his throat and coughs. It sounds suspiciously like he's saying _you_. Jongdae presses his nose into the soft skin under Jongin’s jaw. "What did you say?" 

Jongin withdraws his hand to press it against his face. He’s flushed red with embarrassment. "Hyung, you heard. Don't make me say it again."

Jongdae removes his hand from Jongin's sleep pants long enough to roll him over. Their faces are close, now, breathing each other's stuffy air. Jongin's eyes are wide, darting anywhere but Jongdae's face. Jongin's mouth tastes a little sour from sleep when Jongdae sweeps his tongue across Jongin's lower lip. Jongin, to his credit, seems to at least know how to kiss properly—parts his lips just enough to grant Jongdae access, doesn't scrape his teeth against Jongdae's the way Baekhyun always does. 

Jongdae gets a fistful of Jongin's sweatpants and tugs just hard enough to drag them down to his thighs, then his underwear. He pulls away to spit in his hand and replaces it on Jongin's dick at the same time he leans in for another kiss. Jongin shivers through both points of contact and hooks his ankle around Jongdae's knee to pull him closer. 

"I’ve never—" Jongin huffs into Jongdae's mouth.

"It’s okay. I have," Jongdae assures him. He has—plenty of times, exchanging rushed handjobs with Baekhyun in the bathroom next to the practice rooms, that one time in the back of the bus right behind manager-hyung (that’d been scary—and fucking hot—but mostly scary). 

This is a little slower. He's still half-asleep and Jongin's new at this. He thumbs the head of Jongin's dick carefully, pressing the pad of his finger into the slit and worrying it back and forth until Jongin's tipping his head back, groaning from sensitivity. Jongdae nips a few kisses down the exposed column of Jongin’s throat. 

"What were you dreaming about?" Jongdae tries again. "This?"

Jongin nods, teeth sunk into his lower lip to stifle his low moans. "Hyung," he whines. "Faster." He snaps his hips a few times as if to emphasize his point. 

Jongdae wants to drag it out, one of those agonizingly slow handjobs that leaves Jongin in tears and weeping for release—but a glance at the clock on the side says he's got about five minutes before everyone else in the dorm is awake. He pulls down his own pants with his free hand and uses his thumb to hold their dicks together. 

Jongin hiccups. "Fuck, what—"

"Shh." Jongdae silences him with another insistent kiss. His hand isn't terribly big and the saliva’s sticky and already starting to dry but he's hard as hell and just being _touched_ and listening to Jongin's wrecked breathing is enough to push him to the edge. He comes hot and hard into his own hand, the orgasm pulsing through his body like a current. It's all over for Jongin when Jongdae takes a fresh grip of his cock, palm slick with come, and pumps his elbow like he's wired for hydraulics. 

"Hyung," he sobs into Jongdae's cheek, chest heaving through each wave of his release. It's a minute or so before he can even open his eyes and when he does he looks dazed, a blissed out smile curling across his face.

Jongdae wipes his hand off on Jongin's sweatpants as he pulls them back into place. "Hey," he says to Jongin as he rolls out from under the sheets. "Next time you have one of those dreams—just come see me. I'll take care of it for you."

Jongin blushes and pulls his pillow over his face.


	10. [Chanyeol/Tao] Stranded On An Island (July 28 2013)

It takes Tao exactly three weeks to break. Three weeks of rutting against his palm or dips in the sand or once, painfully, against a tree, before he realizes there's just no way he can go on any longer without somebody touching his dick.

It seems trivial—they're fucking _stranded_ somewhere in the middle of the ocean, after all, and they haven't seen any airplanes overhead or passing ships to suggest that there's a rescue effort in place. 

Not that it's all bad: the weather's pleasant, there's an endless supply of food thanks to Chanyeol's ingenuity in rigging a makeshift ladder to retrieve ripening the melons from the tops of trees. They've even started to construct a lean-to from the driftwood that washes ashore. 

But there are some things the island just can't provide.

Chanyeol eyes him dubiously when he suggests it, melon juice dripping down his chin. "You want me to what?"

"Just—give me a hand. It's your fault we're out here in the first place," Tao says reasonably. "Only makes sense that you atone for your fuck up."

"And that atonement has to involve—" Chanyeol narrows his eyes. "Wait. How is it _my_ fault? I was the one who spotted the island in the first place. If we'd kept swimming the direction you were leading us, we'd still be in the middle of the ocean right now."

"Come on." Tao grabs Chanyeol's hand and jams it against his crotch, already half-hard. "Desperate times and all that."

Chanyeol snorts, but to his credit, he obliges, dropping the melon rind in the sand to stick his other hand down Tao's pants.

"Hey—not so rough—"

"Shut up." Chanyeol rolls his eyes. "You asked for a handjob from me, you're going to get one."

"You're going to pull it off!" Tao moans, covering his face with his hands. "Go easy, fuck—ow— _oh_." His voice hitches a little and breaks into a low, drawn-out moan as Chanyeol thumbs the ridge beneath the head and squeezes. 

Chanyeol leans forward and licks his tongue into Tao's mouth, slow and easy, hand still working inside Tao's shorts. Tao cracks an eye open and wrinkles his nose.

"What was that for?" he asks, breath stuttering a little as Chanyeol's hand twists around the shaft and pulls. 

"Got you to shut the fuck up, didn't it?"


	11. [Sehun/Baekhyun] Kissing 101 (July 28 2013)

Sometimes Baekhyun forgets Sehun's just an overgrown kid who needs to slow down on the milk and maybe even stoop a little bit more when he's walking alongside his hyung. And then he kisses him and he remembers because Sehun's—well—

It'd be uncharitable to call him anything other than inexperienced, but sloppy's definitely closer to the mark. Baekhyun walks away from these impromptu make out sessions (always in closets, behind racks of costumes backstage, and once on Chanyeol's bed, to Baekhyun's great satisfaction) with sore teeth and the same wet, sticky face he gets whenever Jongin brings one of his dogs by to visit the dorms. 

Sehun yanks him aside one day, mouth already swooping in to catch Baekhyun's before they're even safely inside the bathroom stall. Baekhyun slows him with a flattened palm to the chest.

"Alright, that's enough of that."

"Huh?" Sehun looks confused. "I thought you liked—"

"Yeah, I do. I was hoping you'd be better at this by now, though."

Sehun looks annoyed. "Tao's never had any complaints," he mumbles, eyes rolling to the ceiling. "Don't be a dick."

"I used to say that there was no such thing as bad kissing, but, uh, maknae—you're proving me wrong here. This is just like rehearsal—you never pay attention and try to _learn_ from what I'm doing." Baekhyun braces his hands against Sehun's wide shoulders and looks up. "Now. Just follow my lead." It's damn embarrassing to have to bounce up on his toes to press his mouth against the corner of Sehun's. _When did he get so fucking tall,_ Baekhyun wonders. _This is stupid. **I'm** the hyung._

Sehun's tongue starts to inch past his teeth. Baekhyun reels back and grasps hold of Sehun's jaw with his hand.

"Ah-ah," he admonishes. "Don't move. And you're not allowed to use tongue until I say you can."


	12. [Chen/Kyungsoo] Ice Cream Date (September 7 2013)

Jongdae's in the middle of a long-winded story about his high school choir days when Kyungsoo notices the drip working its way halfway down his chin. Jongdae pauses just long enough to push another spoonful of green tea ice cream past his teeth, doesn't even stop to swallow before he continues. Either he doesn't realize he's wearing more of his dessert than he's actually managed to get in his stomach or he just doesn't care. Either way, Kyungsoo's too distracted to listen to the rest of what he's saying.

"Here," he says tersely, pushing a napkin against Jongdae's open mouth. "That's gross."

Jongdae mops at his face, bashful grin working its way across his lips. "Sorry. Can't take me anywhere, I guess."

Kyungsoo shrugs, kicks at Jongdae's foot under the table. It's the closest thing to affection he feels comfortable expressing in public. "At least you care that you're embarrassing," he concedes. "It's a start."


	13. [Chanyeol/Krs] High School Basketball (September 7 2013)

Chanyeol, unsurprisingly, is _awful_ at basketball, but Kris doesn't much care about that when the underclassman is always the first to show up at practices and always stays late to help put the equipment away. Kris, for his part, appreciates that Chanyeol seems to be the only one who hasn't made a crack about last season's knee injury. The brace does its job but Kris knows he's not getting the height he used to get on his jump shots and it's probably going to fuck with his chances of playing in college but for now, he's choosing to focus on one game at a time.

Chanyeol, though—his coordination's for shit. He makes roughly ten percent of the layups he attempts and that's on a good day. On a bad day? Forget it. Kris tries to help but he's starting to think Chanyeol might be hopeless.

He's debating in his head whether or not to tell him to _just quit already_ —it feels mean when Chanyeol's so fucking optimistic, always with that beaming grin on his face even when he's wiped out on the court for the twentieth time that practice. Kris feels a little bad at the thought of being the one to take that away from him for the sake of—what? Chanyeol's not stupid, clearly isn't harboring any illusions about going pro someday. What's the harm in letting him be?

Still, he's curious. "Why'd you try out for the team?" he asks one day after practice. Chanyeol looks up from the ball he's holding under his arm.

"Hmm? This one's flat, hyung," he says. "Why? I don't know." His cheeks color.

"Do you like it?"

"Mostly." Chanyeol shrugs and lets the ball drop to the floor. It falls heavy like a stone, lands with a thud, barely bounces. "I know I'm pretty bad."

"No, no," Kris says, a little too quickly. Chanyeol grins.

"You're a terrible liar. I've seen your face when we scrimmage, hyung. And I've heard the others talking. I know I'm the other team's greatest asset when I'm on the court." He kneels down to fish another ball out from under the bleachers.

"I mean. You try," Kris offers lamely. Chanyeol sits back on his heels and looks up at Kris.

"Honestly, hyung? I just like watching you play. When I'm on the bench, it's the best seat in the whole gym."

It's Kris's turn to blush.


	14. [Chanyeol/Krs] C'est Le Paradis (September 7 2013)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short prequel set a year before [We Lie Awake At Night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3391940/chapters/7422182).

Chanyeol knows he's pushing it when he barges his way into Kris's room for the third time that week and flops down on the bed expectantly, but he can't help it—he just sleeps better this way.

"Where's Minseok?" he asks after a moment, eyes lingering on the neatly-made bed across the room. Kris doesn't bother looking up from his French literature assignment.

"Where is he ever?"

"Library. Probably bothering Lu Han."

Kris chuckles. "I think Lu Han does most of the bothering, but either way—got it in one." He flips the page with a twist of his wrist, the papery _whoosh_ like an explosion in the quiet room. Chanyeol lies there, arm stretched out across the empty half of the twin bed, eyes placid. He waits. He's watched this scene play out so many times, knows the exact shape Kris's body curls into when he's especially interested in his assignment, knows when his patience will be rewarded.

"What's the translation?"

"Almost done," Kris replies without actually answering the question. He frowns, flicks between a few pages before scribbling something in his notebook.

"Hyung," Chanyeol whines, mostly through his nose. "Come on."

Kris lets his book close with a decisive snap. " _Pour moi, c'est le paradis,_ " he intones, tongue curling deliciously over the rounded vowels. His french is flawless. Chanyeol has enough trouble switching back and forth between English and Korean—forget the other languages he's supposed to be learning. French is rough, German is laughable, and Chinese—well, there's a reason Kris is tutoring him in that subject.

Well. He's _supposed to be_ , anyway. Usually it ends up like this: a study in anatomy. Chanyeol thinks he's probably acing that particular subject.

"For me..." Chanyeol trails off, rolling aside just enough for Kris's body to fit. "For me..." he tries again.

"This is heaven," Kris finishes, eyelids already hooded and heavy with contentment. "Come on, Chanyeol. You've been taking French since you were a kid. You know this stuff."

Chanyeol nods mutely. It's true, in theory—but it's not his fault everything flies out the window the minute Kris comes within two feet of him, erases his memory and replaces conjugated verbs with moments a lot like this one: the soft line of his cheek, the heavy _v_ of his eyebrows as they draw together, searching Chanyeol's face for _something_. If Chanyeol knew what it was, he'd go and fetch it immediately, leave it at his feet with a fucking _bow_ —

Kris's face draws closer. Chanyeol counts down the centimeters between them. This might be his second favorite part—the 3, 2, 1 before impact. Kris always seems to be holding back, chaste, almost—like he's kissing the president's son instead of just _Chanyeol_ until Chanyeol frames Kris's face with his palms and pulls him across the final void, crashing into each other like waves on the shore.


	15. [Chanyeol/Krs] Hey Baby Do What You Please (September 29 2013)

It’s nearly September but the scorching heat feels more like mid-July. Chanyeol’s dying in his uniform—it’s the right time of year, technically, for the school boy concept, but he still tries to loosen his tie just a little bit when nobody’s noticing, just to catch his breath. He adjusts his position on the bed, tries not to look at Kris, who’s sprawled comfortably across the mattress like he owns the place. Under his dress shirt, Chanyeol can feel a drop of sweat trace the ridges of his spine from between his shoulder blades to settle at the small of his back. It's gross. Five more minutes. The photographer instructs Kyungsoo to move his body forward and snaps a few pictures. Chanyeol curses inwardly; Kyungsoo’s body wasn’t blocking the breeze through the window before he moved.

“Done. Thank you,” the photographer announces after peering at the display of his DSLR for a moment. “Next location. Downstairs!”

The managers at the other end of the room herd everyone out but Kris hangs back, still sprawled out across the bed. Chanyeol’s too busy talking to Kyungsoo to notice until Kyungsoo’s eyes flicker back past Chanyeol and he stops. 

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

Kyungsoo nods. “Hurry,” he warns, disappearing down the hall. Chanyeol smiles tightly and turns around, frozen in the doorway.

“Hyung?” he asks. “You coming?”

Kris loosens his tie with one hand, leans back on his free elbow. “Yeah. In a minute.” He pauses, mouth pursing in thought before he looks up at Chanyeol, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Stay. They don’t need us right away.”

Chanyeol glances over his shoulder. They’re alone. House is empty. Laughter threads in through the open window—Baekhyun and Jongin, Yixing’s thin voice shouting encouragement. “Okay,” he says finally. “For a few minutes.”

“That’s all I need.”

Chanyeol feels his laugh in his chest before it sounds. “Oh?”

“Come here.” Kris beckons with an index finger. Chanyeol doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Chanyeol drops to his knees with a loud crunch and slides onto the floor between Kris’s spread legs, holds onto Kris’s sneaker until he’s comfortably situated. Kris winces, rakes his hand through Chanyeol’s hair. Chanyeol shakes him off. 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, unceremoniously dropping his chin into Kris’s lap. He can see Kris’s dick stir in his trousers, rising erection straining against the tartan fabric. His own dick twitches against the inside of his thigh, hopelessly trapped by his underwear. The friction is driving him crazy. 

Kris exhales slowly through his teeth. “You look really good,” he admits quietly, playing with the lapel of Chanyeol’s suit. “I didn’t get to tell you before.”

“You too,” Chanyeol breathes, rubbing his cheek into the soft give of Kris’s thigh. Kris’s whine hitches in his throat.

Chanyeol’s been so goddamn horny lately with no time to take care of it properly. Promotions have been relentless. He keeps rubbing against anything stationary for relief like a bad dog: the bedpost, the edge of the sink. Countertops. Satisfaction’s a distant memory, though. The last time was particularly sad. A late night bath in a hotel room, one of the few times they’d all been given their own room. He’d discovered the jet function, lowered himself into the tub and let the water pressure bring him to release over and over again. His gelatinous gait, legs more bowed than usual when he’d finally peeled himself out of the cold water, stumbled over to his bed and collapsed, lower half still wrapped in a towel. Baekhyun’d found him like that the next morning.

Chanyeol struggles with the button on Kris’s pants for a moment before Kris knocks his hand away and does it for him. Chanyeol laughs into Kris’s kneecap. “Sorry. All thumbs.”

“You just don’t want it enough,” Kris teases. 

“Hey, I want it. I just don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Chanyeol still hasn’t completely gotten over the humiliation. Filming Growl, those awful grey uniforms. Chanyeol broke the zipper on Kris’s pants in his haste to get the job done before they got caught. Trying to explain _that_ one to the stylists had been an exercise in creative bullshitting on the fly. His ears still burn at the memory.

Kris pulls the band of his underwear down, sits up just enough to pull his pants halfway to his knees. Chanyeol leans forward eagerly, kisses Kris’s erect cock gently, like he’s saying hello after an extended time apart. Kris shivers, nudges at him with his toe.

“No time.”

Chanyeol feels the heat from Kris’s hands hovering close to his face before they come to rest tentatively on the back of his neck. They’ve still got half a day of this shoot left and Kris is hyper-aware of that. He’s very careful to avoid Chanyeol’s neatly-coiffed hair. They can’t show up looking sweaty and debauched—not without a plausible explanation that won’t get the both of them in deep trouble. 

Plus, Baekhyun’s a dick about it every time he catches them hiding around a corner, flushed and panting.

Chanyeol laps his tongue against the sheen of pre come gathering at the tip for a moment, tastes the sharp, salty tang of cock. He’s so familiar with how Kris tastes, would know it was him even if they were in a dark room. He inhales through his nose a few more times before he closes his lips around as much length as he can manage. Kris hums approvingly, moves himself closer to the edge of the bed so Chanyeol’s not craning his neck at a weird angle.

The room’s quiet, the sounds of boys shouting to each other outside louder than the soft sucking sounds coming from Kris’s lap. Kris groans into his shoulder when he comes, feels Chanyeol’s tongue still, throat tightening around each pulse until Kris feels spent, dried out. He swallows, Kris’s fingers idly stroking his throat until he looks up and nods, tucks Kris back into his boxers and gives the zipper a half-hearted tug. 

Kris stops Chanyeol from fumbling with his buttons again and pulls him up on the bed by the scruff. Chanyeol blinks, eyes glazed and unfocused, scrubs at the saliva dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand.

“Mmwhat?” he asks.

“You too,” Kris says, cupping his hand around the bulge in Chanyeol’s trousers. Chanyeol seethes and pushes his crotch into Kris’s palm, head lolling back, jaw slack. Kris pulls Chanyeol’s forehead into his and stares at him for a moment, eyes quiet, considering.

Chanyeol leans into his touch, relishes the press of Kris’s fingertips against his cheekbones. Kris opens his mouth and leans in, kisses Chanyeol with an insistent flick of his tongue against Chanyeol’s lower lip. The bed protests under their combined weight, frame rattling with the rocking motion of their bodies rutting into each other. It’s not delicate. It can’t be—not with the size of this bed, two of them crushed together on a twin mattress, metal bed frame creaking dangerously.

It’s almost like being back at the dorms.

Kris pulls Chanyeol in between his legs, chests flush, and tips his throat back to let Chanyeol lick at his neck. Chanyeol knows not to bite, never to leave marks where anyone could see them but he still likes this part the best, loves the spicy, warm smell of Kris’s skin, stronger than any cologne when he buries his nose into Kris’s hairline and rolls his hips forward with a fluidity he only seems to achieve when he’s riding Kris’s leg to orgasm. Jaewon wishes Chanyeol had this much control over his body on a regular basis. 

After a few well-directed thrusts, Kris's hands cupped around his ass, Chanyeol whimpers into the crook of Kris’s shoulder. His whole body goes rigid. Kris soothes him down from it, strokes gentle circles into the expanse of Chanyeol’s palm with his thumb. Chanyeol feels a languid satisfaction settle over him, drowsy from the heat of the room and the arousal still under his skin. His underwear is damp, uncomfortable. He’s going to have to clean up in the bathroom before they go downstairs.

It’s not long enough. There’s never enough time for what should come after. He sits up and shakes the sleep from his eyes.

“We should go,” he croaks, voice husky and broken. Outside, he hears Jongdae's high, musical laugh. Somewhere even further in the distance, an engine turns over and roars to life. They're out of time.

Kris reaches up, thumbs his cheek affectionately. “Thank you.”

Chanyeol smiles, tongue still curled against the roof of his mouth. He still tastes Kris, heavy and bitter in his mouth. Somehow, though, it’s not unpleasant. He nods. “You, too.”


	16. [Tao/Sehun] I'll Always Follow You (December 7 2013)

The tall kid comes up the walkway just as Zitao’s put the shovel back at the side of the house. He hears him first: the sound echoes across the quiet yard like there are ten of him, breaking through the snow’s crust with crunching, deliberate steps.The willowy figure and awkward gait of a body growing too fast to become accustomed to its own architecture before it changes again. A down jacket, hood lined in fur, but inexplicably bare hands.

"Hello?" Zitao calls when the boy’s close enough to hear him. "Are you lost?"

The boy looks up. His fists are buried deep in his pockets, nose bright red from the wind. "I don't really know where I'm going," he says, and Zitao holds the door open for him to come inside out of the cold.

 

The boy’s name is Oh Sehun. He tells this to Zitao as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck and shakes the ice crystals out on the rug next to the fireplace. They catch the firelight, twinkling, like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the hearth.

 

It’s the worst snowfall they’ve had in decades. Zitao’s beyond the city limits by kilometers. No plows out here, no salt. Not that there's really been a need for such things—he recalls a six centimeter snowfall back when he first opened the B&B, but since then it's been a dusting here and there. Barely anything to warrant owning a shovel, let alone a bag of rock salt for the walkway. He's amazed Sehun's not frozen solid, and even more amazed that he managed to find Zitao in the first place, walking this far without a decent map, or gloves, or a compass.

"They have GPS on cell phones, you know," he says, easing his boots off his feet and setting them down next to the fire. His socks have holes at the heels. Zitao brings him a fresh pair from his basket of freshly-laundered clothes and wonders.

"What if your battery died?"

A sheepish look from Sehun confirms Zitao's suspicions. "Well," he says, rising to his feet. "I'm glad you found me."

 

Zitao makes a quick dinner while Sehun leans over the fire to unthaw, palms pressed flat into the rippling heat. He doesn't have much on hand—hasn't had much chance to get out to the store, with the roads being the way that they are, and besides, it's December. Nobody stays at the B&B in the off-season. It's too remote for the tourists who come to see the city, and backpackers are usually smart enough to go south, instead.

Sehun pulls a map from his bag and Zitao laughs at the flaking paper, the yellowing sellotape that cracks when the map's smoothed into a single sheet of paper. "How old is this?" he asks. "Older than you."

Sehun wrinkles his nose, suddenly petulant. "Forget it," he says, snatching it back up. "I'll leave in the morning. Sorry for taking up your time." He takes great care folding it and Zitao realizes that this map is obviously something very special to Sehun. 

 

"I'm trying to get to Beijing," he tells Zitao later, after he's stopped staring moodily at the snapping flames. "I'm on my way to see a friend."

Zitao looks up from the book he's been reading, surprised that Sehun is talking to him again. "There's a good trail for that. A shortcut, if you know what you're looking for."

"It was only supposed to take a week to get to him, but now…" Sehun gestures out the window at the falling snow. "I can't believe it. I've never seen snow like this before."

"It's December," Zitao reminds him smugly, even though secretly he's thinking the same thing. "It's beautiful, though." The slick coating of ice on the tree branches, like the world's been encased in glass, the way everything's completely silent as the world holds its breath and waits for spring. 

"I know," Sehun says.

"So why are you doing it on foot?" 

Sehun holds his mug out for more tea and Zitao obliges. "Because," he says, smiling impishly through the drifting steam. "He told me I wouldn't. That I couldn't."

"So you're doing this for a bet?" Zitao raises an eyebrow. "That's stupid."

"Don't tell me you've never done anything just to prove to someone you could," Sehun says.

"Nothing that involved frostbite," Zitao says. "I like my fingers. They're very useful."

Sehun's face changes, eyes twinkling with a rude joke he wants to crack but the expression's gone before Zitao can make a comment.

 

Zitao hurries to put a room together for Sehun, but his linen closet is woefully empty. The laundry's waiting—in town, of course, waiting to be picked up. He'd meant to go into town today, but the snow had derailed all of his plans. The rooms are all in the back corner of the house, far from the reach of the wood stove. There aren't nearly enough blankets in the house for a winter guest, but he pulls a few from his own bed and hopes Sehun doesn't notice.

Sehun's already fast asleep in front of the fire when Zitao comes back downstairs, feet propped up and crossed neatly at the ankles. He doesn't have the heart to wake him, so he drapes his coat over Sehun's shoulders, adds another log to the fire, and retires for the evening.

 

The sun is shining when Zitao opens his eyes. The snow has stopped and the world's white and the house is _warm_ even though the fire should have burned out ages ago. He comes through the hall from the front bedroom and sees the empty kitchen. Sehun's shoes aren't by the door, either.

He can't have been gone long, though. The kettle's still warm, and there's an abandoned breakfast bowl in the sink, full of soapy water in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning it before Sehun had given up on doing it properly. Zitao smiles and shakes his head, rinses it clean and sets it on the side to dry.

He sees it, then: the map on the table. Forgotten? Zitao could have sworn that Sehun had put it back in his bag after he'd insulted it.

He looks out at the footsteps traipsed out across the snowy lawn and realizes nobody else is coming. That Sehun will be the last visitor he has until March and he has nothing else to lose, and it's been a while since he had an adventure.

He packs his bag. He puts in double the number of socks, a blanket. The map. Enough food for two.

He pauses in the door frame and looks around. There's an extra pair of gloves on the side. His back-up pair for when the wood pile runs low. He pockets them and sets off, knowing there's someone at the other end of the footprints who is probably wishing for them at this very moment.


	17. [Kai/Lu Han] Paint You Red & Stick Horns On Your Head (December 9 2013)

"Lu Han!"

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

"Lu Han? Are you up here?"

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

"The front door was unlocked, so I just—let myself in— _Christ_ , what the hell? I'm sorry—" Jongin shields his eyes, his remaining hand still splayed across Lu Han's bedroom door. From within the room, there's a violent rustling of sheets as Lu Han rolls out of bed and onto the floor, naked as the day he was born.

"Fuck, Jongin. Don't you ever knock?" Lu Han hisses, groping for the sheet tangled around his legs. On the bed, an equally unclothed young man hugs his arms to himself, vainly trying to regain some dignity. Jongin vaguely recognizes him from English class—Oh Sehun. A first year, like Jongin.

"I didn't think—fuck, I'm sorry, Sehun." Jongin groans and takes a step back, turning away from the scene to give the room's occupants some privacy.

"Yeah. You never fucking think, do you?" Lu Han sneers. "You're always the one that shoots first and asks questions later."

"I don't think I need to ask questions," Jongin mutters into his hands. "I paid attention in biology, thank you. Is it safe now?"

"Safe as in are we dressed? Pretty much." The snap of elastic on hipbone, the quiet metallic rip of a zipper closing. "Safe as in you're going to live to see your next birthday? Doubtful."

Jongin turns back around, relieved to see Lu Han pulling on a pair of socks. Sehun brushes past him, still shirtless, sweater slung over his shoulder.

"I'll call you later, Lu Han," he mutters, cheeks blazing red. "Bye Jongin."

Lu Han waits for a moment, listens to Sehun take the stairs two at a time and slam the front door shut before he turns on Jongin, eyes blazing. "You. Asshole. Don't ever fucking do that again. When I say I'm busy after school, I'm fucking busy. End of story." His eyebrows draw together in a deep frown. "What did you need that was so desperate that you had to fucking barge in here like the place is on fire?"

Jongin ignores the berating and asks his own question instead. "I didn't know you and Sehun were dating. When did this start?" He tries to keep it casual, breathes slowly in between his questions so he doesn't sound eager.

Lu Han rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Last term, maybe."

"I didn't even know you guys were sleeping together—I thought you were just hanging out sometimes. You said it was casual."

Lu Han looks amused. "It _is_ casual."

"With lots of sex?"

"You bet. Why?"

Jongin nods, drops his gaze to the carpet. "It's—it's just weird, that's all. That we've been hanging out this whole time and you never told me about it."

Lu Han's hands delve deep inside his pockets. He fumbles for a moment before he pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and knocks one into his palm. "Didn't think it was any of your business," he says, lips clamped around the unlit cigarette. His words are a little muffled, but the tone's the same: sharp, suspicious. _Why do you care?_

"You're my friend, is all," Jongin says. 

The lighter clicks quietly and illuminates Lu Han's pinched lips, paints his cheeks with a soft orange glow. "What does that have to do with me fucking him?" he asks, wisps of smoke clouding his nostrils as he exhales. He's watching Jongin now—really watching him, eyes wide. If Jongin didn't already know Lu Han very, very well, he'd almost call it an innocent expression.

"It's just. I don't know. Forget it." Jongin runs a hand through his hair, irritated, and goes to sit on the bed. At the last minute, he remembers what he'd encountered when he entered the room and opts to sit on the windowsill instead.

"Aw, Jonginnie. Are you jealous?" Lu Han teases. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and flicks the ash into the garbage can next to his bed. "You can fuck him too, if you want. I don't really give a shit—and he'd put out, if you asked." He snickers. "He's easy enough to convince."

Jongin can't hide the mortification from his face. "No! Jesus, Lu Han—don't talk about it like that, that wasn't what I meant."

"Why not? It's not like Sehun gives a shit. He's the one that proposed the whole thing in the first place." He lowers his voice, attempting to mimic Sehun's gravelly voice. "It's just so we get our needs met, hyung. No strings attached." He laughs, a puff of smoke clouds his face, threads of smoke curling around his lips before they disappear. "Whatever fucking works, as long as I'm getting laid." 

Jongin scowls. "You just never mentioned anything about dating him, that's all," he says defensively. "I just didn't know. I thought that was the type of thing I'd know, since I see you every day."

"Fuck, Jongin. What did you want? A telegram? We're not dating. Fuck that shit—what is this, a drama? No, thank you." He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and tosses the butt into the garbage. The windowsill creaks a little when he sits down next to Jongin and puts a hand on his knee. "Seriously, Jongin. You just need to get your dick sucked and you'll be singing a different tune." He grabs Jongin's crotch and squeezes hard. "It's like nothing you've ever fucking experienced before."

Jongin grimaces and pries his friend's fingers away from his package, hoping to _God_ Lu Han hadn't noticed his dick stiffen a little under his touch. "You're so fucking high. What did you take today?"

Lu Han giggles and flops back over on the bed, feet dangling off the edge as he bounces up and down. "I didn't take anything."

Jongin watches him. "You fucking liar."

"Would I lie?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

Lu Han ignores him in favor of rummaging around in the bed, looking for something.

"Alright. Apparently not." Jongin sighs and shakes his head. "Anyway, look. I came here to tell you that Coach wants you back on the football team—"

"Found it!" Lu Han crows, pulling a translucent, sticky object from the sheets and flinging it at Jongin. "I want you to have that to keep, forever and always, Jonginnie," he begins solemnly, "because you're my best friend, and—" He bursts into helpless convulsions of laughter at this point. It takes him a moment to calm down enough to finish: "And maybe you can carry it around and tell people you finally got laid."

Jongin sneers, peeling the used condom off of his shirt. He throws it back at Lu Han and wipes his hand on the bedspread. "You're fucking disgusting, you know that?"

"I'm fucking something." Lu Han snorts at his own joke. "More than you can say."

"Alright, forget it," Jongin says, standing up to leave. "I'll tell Coach you're not interested anymore."

"Wait," Lu Han says, catching at Jongin's hand, suddenly serious. "You weren't kidding? You're—he said I can come back?"

Jongin nods slowly. "He says you've gotta sit out the next few matches. Because of the incident." _The fight,_ he thinks. _The fight that should have gotten you expelled, you dumb jackass._ "But if you come back to practice, he won't bench you for the entire season."

Lu Han glowers. "What's the point of being on the team if I don't get to play?"

Jongin sighs. "I don't know—I'll be there. Isn't that enough?"

Lu Han sits back on the bed, doesn't let go of Jongin's hand. "It used to be, but. I don't know, Jongin. This season was my last chance, and it's already half gone."

Jongin doesn't know what to say. He wants to give the time back to Lu Han, but there are choices Lu Han keeps making: to smoke behind the equipment shed, to sleep through exams, to skip practice in favor of going to the arcade. And even though he tries, desperately, Jongin can't stop him from making these choices.

"Just come," he says quietly.

Lu Han blinks up at him, pupils blown wide from whatever shit he's put up his nose today. "You think I've still got a shot?"

 _No,_ Jongin thinks. _Not if you keep going down this road._ "Yes," he lies. "You're the best football player this school has ever seen. There's no way you won't make it."


	18. [Sehun/Lu Han] Full-Fledged Strangers

That night, Lu Han's sent out by himself, gun slung over his shoulder, knapsack bumping against the small of his back. Patrol, they say. Really what they mean is _stay out of the way_ because they don't have a real use for him. His marksmanship is spotty and he's guilty of always falling asleep when it's his turn to watch at night. He's not irresponsible, by any means—he really does _try_ , but he's more focused when he's humming along with the songs in his head, songs his mother used to sing him when he was a child.

"Songbird," they keep calling him, but he knows that's not meant to be a compliment. Calling him _songbird_ is like saying he's the pet of the regiment. Kept for his aesthetic value instead of for practical reasons. Superfluous. A useless soldier.

He's the youngest member of his unit by at least a decade. No one would notice if he didn't come back. He's not even convinced there's an accurate headcount. The army's in disarray. The commanding officer is some sixty-year-old guy who keeps barking at them about the lack of funding and support from back home, like that's their fault. They're here because they've been ordered to be, not because they believe in this fight. Korea's just a small peninsula, barely worth the fuss of a war with Japan, Lu Han thinks, pondering the consequences of going AWOL and just returning home. There's not a lot of room in the barracks as it is, and Lu Han's small enough, sleeps on the floor wrapped in a blanket that's more holes than thread. 

The billowing sails of Japanese warships loom in the dark harbor, ballooning ominously with the wind, full of malice. _They're coming,_ he realizes, _tonight_ , and it crosses his mind to go tell someone but he's interrupted by loud, popping gunfire only a few streets away. Chaos. He forgets about the men in his unit, who've probably forgotten about _him_ already, and runs.

The Japanese soldiers are everywhere, though—they're more organized, their guns shoot more quickly, take less time to reload. He hears the shouts of men in the distance—some Chinese, some Japanese, but all panicked, angry. He turns a corner and slams right into a Japanese soldier, and reels away, his eyes stretched round. The young soldier stares back at him, eyes pulled wide with fear and Lu Han's struck by the similarities—he can't be much older than Lu Han, if at all.

The soldier takes off running in the other direction and Lu Han can't tell if it's a retreat or if he's running for backup, so he tucks himself onto the porch of a nearby the hanok and waits until the noises of battle retreat a few streets over. _I need to find cover,_ he decides, and crawls on his stomach to the front door of the hanok. He knocks, listens. 

No answer. Knocks again with the sharp bend of his knuckles so the door rattles on its sliding track a little bit, but the house sits in stony silence.

This could be a decent place to hide out until it gets light. 

He's been sleeping in his boots for weeks but he can't shake his upbringing. He toes off the boots at the door, hides them in a long shadow cast by a pillar and hope nobody notices them. Pulls the door open with his fingertips and squints inside. It's cold and dark, inhabitants long gone. Probably moved out when the armies marched in and went south to stay with family until the engagement was over (or the city burned, or both, Lu Han supposes). 

He crawls inside on his stomach like a snake and slides the door closed behind him with his toe. The barrier muffles the gunfire outside, makes it sound miles away instead of streets. 

A noise. Scratching, the rustling of fabric. Lu Han sits bolt upright and stares into the dark, squinting, trying to make out the rest of the room. He used his last match on a cigarette an hour ago and doesn't have any way of lighting the room. For all he knows, a Japanese soldier has been lying in wait to shoot him dead.

"Hello?" he asks, voice quavering, afraid of death. "Who's there?"

Lu Han doesn't understand the response but he recognizes it's Korean and that means he's probably safe. His shoulders sag with relief.

"Oh," he says as a face comes out of the dark, eyebrows furrowed. "Hello. I'm—sorry, I thought this place was abandoned. I—I can leave, if you want."

It's a boy. Dark, shaggy hair obscuring his eyes. Bare feet. Pants too short—an old pair that probably fit him before a growth spurt, judging by the wear on the knees. He's painfully thin, like he hasn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. Pale, too, probably from hunger, although it could be the silvery moonlight diffused through the high paper windows. 

"Do you have a name?" he asks. 

The boy frowns, confused. He says something else—mumbles it, really, looking at the floor. It lifts at the end into a question mark and Lu Han decides he meant to ask, _who are you?_ even though he's got no proof.

"I'm Lu Han," he says slowly, pointing at his chest. "Lu. Han." He enunciates each syllable of his name, lips pushed forward on _Lu_ , dropping slack on _Han_. The boy mouths along with him silently. "I'm—I won't hurt you." He pulls the gun off his chest and the boy sits back, the whites of his eyes stretching wide. Lu Han puts the gun on the floor in between them and shows the boy his open palms. _Trust me,_ he thinks. _Please._

The boy tips his head quizzically and says something else. Then, just as slowly as Lu Han had done, he introduces himself: "Oh Sehun. Oh. Se. Hun." He points at himself frantically, finger jabbing into his chest until Lu Han reaches out and takes Sehun's hands between his own to stop the motion. Sehun's fingers are bony and very cold. 

"Sehun," Lu Han says. "I understand. Your name is Sehun. Don't hurt yourself." He continues even though he knows Sehun doesn't understand a word, because Sehun's the first person Lu Han's really spoken to at all since he arrived in Seoul weeks ago and he's _lonely_ and the gunfire outside keeps getting louder. "Why are your hands so cold? Why isn't there a fire?" And, "When did you last eat? Are you hungry?"

Sehun narrows his eyes and pulls his hand away, finger by finger. His eyes never leave Lu Han's face, and Lu Han finds he's less unsettled by the eye contact than perhaps he should be.


End file.
